


Shattered Chain

by StarsOverTheEast (orphan_account)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dagor Dagorath? What Dagor Dagorath?, Gen, not as dark - dark lords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 03:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14127393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StarsOverTheEast
Summary: The Door of Night opened before him, Melkor steps foot into Middle Earth once more.





	Shattered Chain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poe_tay_toe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poe_tay_toe/gifts).



_Something has changed._

_The chains are ... loose._

_Perhaps if he opens his eyes he can see them._

_No, no there is no light here._

_But, what is that shine?_

_A light about the door, the door that is just inches away._

_The chains are cracking? Falling away into the empty air beneath._

_His feet are moving._

_Feet?_

_They hewed them away didn’t they? Cut them from under him and hammered his crown about his neck._

_The door is closer now, and the chains are almost gone._

_Arda is calling._

_No, it’s always called. Always pulsed within but the call is louder now. The rumble of the mountains, the sting of a winter wind, the lava beneath the ground. They had tried to mute it before. The last punishment, the most horrible._

_The door is cold to the touch and the light is brilliant as it comes through the gaps._

_One push._

_That’s all it takes._

_And Melkor is free of the Void._

-

With a gasp Melkor collapsed to the ground, his hands grasping wildly for something to grab and sinking into the smooth sand.

The first breath of air passed into mouth, a sweet taste after the air of the void. If air it could be called. Bitter and reeking it had filled his mouth and at times threatened to choke them as a second chain wrapped about his throat.

Raising his head Melkor slid onto his knees, glancing around at his surroundings. An unfamiliar shore with scattered clumps of tall grass and rocky banks as far as his eye could see. A less than grand entrance for a vala but it was indeed Arda. He could feel its very pulse with his own beating heart, a joyous feeling; one that he had long missed.

His heart.

Rising to his feet Melkor glanced turned to the water and peered down at his reflection. His preferred form, the one he had crafted in the form of the children, gazed back up at him. Dark hair, deep brown eyes, and flesh that -

Was whole?

Raising a hand to his face Melkor passed his fingers over his cheek, over the scars left by the cursed bird of his brother when the elf had come to challenge him. His fingers met only the slightest edge, a whisper of hurt.

His hands!

No longer blackened, no longer heavy with the burned flesh inflicted by the jewels. Only a slight shadow of black, a hint of the past.

Indeed all of his wounds seemed to have faded into barely more than an echo of what they had been at the last. Surely the Void had not healed them. He had felt them in the darkness, the searing pain of burning flesh and chains too tight upon his skin.

For a minute or two he experimented, shifting his form with all the freedom he had once processed. As simple as slipping on a garment, as one of the children would a robe.

But was he not a ainu? A vala? His hand grew cold as his skin shifted to ice; ungloved of mortal form and revealing his very essence.

And yet it wasn’t right. Nay, he should have more strength. Even in the final years he had spent in Angband his power had been greater. Even after he had spent it among his servants, among his dragons, his fortress. He had poured it into Arda itself, a father providing for his child while suffering himself. He had more, weary as he had been

Melkor raised his head, glancing about once more. A fine return he was making. Defenseless and unaware instead of the terrible rebirth he had heard whispers of from the lips of Mandos. Descending as a terrible cloud to blot out the sun and moon. A monster bent upon revenge and dominion of Middle Earth was he?

Turning towards the sea he cast his mind towards Valinor, seeking the ever present wall of light that had seemed to hinder him before. Had the Valar felt his return? How much time had he wasted standing upon this shore like an elf marveling at a shiny trinklet? Where -

Nothing?

Melkor frowned and stepped forward, the water pooling about his bare feet.

The Blessed Realm was simply gone. Vanished. No - Removed. Taken from the bounds of the seen world and into another. Had the Valar abandoned their creation? Ripped him away and fled themselves?

No, perhaps not. He could feel their presence at least. But faint.

His mind turned to different directions then. What of his fortress? Completely destroyed no doubt, even now he could it as a phantom pain. His servants then? Many had died by the time they had found him. Dragons, orcs, all manner of other creature. The maiar who had served him, fled or broken or repented in hope of mercy.

What of Mairon?

If Manwë had Eönwë, Melkor had had Mairon. Loyal to the end, the maia had departed only when Melkor had forced him. If he was to seek out anyone, it would be him.

Where now did he dwell?

Shredding himself momentarily of visible form Melkor took the air, a storm upon the sea.

He would begin with Angband.

-

Drowned.

When they had laid siege to Utumno they had been content to merely drag him from his halls and tear down the walls. The dark caverns had remained far beneath and Mairon had held Angband.

“It appears they learned their lesson,” Melkor mused, his voice the rumble of stone as he gazed down at the water

Not only Angband, no. A whole land wiped away and lost beneath the waves. The battle had taken the home of the elves and men, the precious children they had sworn to protect. Was that why they had withdrawn? Guilt? Fear? They had slain him but what had their followers thought afterward?

Whatever the reason they had withdrew their power. Left Arda to continue the course of the song according to the whims of the children and their own themes.

And they had claimed he had no love.

Turning his attention back to his once fortress Melkor descended. If Mairon had at any point lingered here it was long past. Indeed no life resided within the once vast halls save for the bottom dungeons where creatures who skin burnt under the sun trembled still in shadow.

Where then would he have gone?

Valinor?

Would they have offered him pardon? A maiar doing as he was told, corrupted by the Dark Lord. A lost soul to be pitied and bought back to beg for mercy and spend his years as a slave striving to gain trust. Eönwë had led the forces, and had at a time been Mairon’s companion. That his brother’s herald offered mercy Melkor had little doubt but had Mairon taken it?

Back beneath Aulë’s ever watchful eye. Back among the toiling maiar of the forge and marked least among them for his sins. Made to nod and toil and regret his time and crimes beneath Morgoth, the black foe.

No.

That Mairon regretted coming to him, Melkor could not believe. Mairon had shown him as much, told him as much. In the works that would never have seen life had he remained. In the smiles and bright bursts of his inner flame as he worked and delighted in the crafting in his forge.

Bending his thought Melkor reached across the land; searching, prying, listening for Mairon’s voice. For any voice.

In the shadows of a cave, Thuringwethil as a pale shadow among her children. Deep below the sea, Gothmog with barely the lick of a flame. Trapped far beneath the crushing earth, Langon with a silenced voice.

Noting each location in his mind Melkor search wider, his thought growing desperate. Had he simply vanished? Mairon whose voice had been among the strongest, who he had given the greatest share of power to. If any had survived it would be him.

And yet …

No.

THERE

In the far east, a cry of the maia’s power; a stain upon the very land. Melkor allowed a grin to come to his face as he turned in the direction. He could find him first, recover the rest and retreat into a land hidden to recover his power.

Yes.

All was to be well.

-

Perhaps he had spoken too soon.

The journey had been swift. A force of nature across the wide land bent upon his one goal. Oh, he had taken note of the changes, of the signs of his own theme. Proud standing mountains, lands blanketed in snow and ice, and the steady flow of his power through each and every inch. Try as they might the Valar had not stripped him completely. Oh no. His own part was much too great, much too important.

But at the moment Melkor’s mind was turned to other concerns.

That Mairon had upon a time ruled this land was clear. Even now it spoke of him from beneath the cities of men and the working of other power. But the voice was that of a broken land, dark and corrupted and bitter. The dwelling of Angband had been foul in the eyes of the elves, made foul by the hands of the orcs but the memories that this land had …

Melkor paused, turning about in the wide field he stood in with confusing and dismay. The greatest call of Mairon had been here, in the shadow of what had once been a towering inferno of fire. That Mairon would seek such a place was little shock but the fire had burned low and the cities of men grew closer.

And then he felt it.

An ember upon the wind. A ghost of a soul.

“Mairon!”

The flicker turned, and Melkor reached forth his hand. How - What had become of him? The very ëala of the maia seem shattered, ripped and torn and left as a fragment of a once whole.

Had he been wrong about the mercy of the Valar?

Reaching with his own ëala Melkor willed his strength to flow out, surrounding the flickering life and fanning it back to roaring fire. For a moment the weary weight of the crown seemed to rest upon his head once again, the aches of his hands and face flash as throbbing pain. A painful reminder of his own limitation and yet -

He would not leave Mairon so.

Suddenly the flame burst into brilliant life, a wildfire waving madly as it climbed into the air. A brilliant burst of life such as the Ainu had taken once before, when they had first entered into Arda.

The flame settled. Red curls fading into soft locks of hair and smoke curling gently from newly created skin. A gasp issued from the trembling form and for a long moment it remained there. Curled upon the ground, taking breath after breath.

“Melkor,” Mairon said at last, his bright eyes wide as he reached for the vala’s hand. “You heard me?”

“I heard a whisper of you.”

Confused clouded Mairon’s face.

“Whisper?” he said, a strange smile upon his face. “No, they do not whisper. The screams are almost daily now from both the sacrifices and the worshipers.”

What?

The smile faded from Mairon’s face as he gazed around then, a another wave of confusion passing over. For a second he seemed lost, scared, pained almost as he turned back towards the mountain.

“No,” he said finally, one hand grasping another. “The ring. I had not sensed it until now, when that fool claimed it. The nine …”

“Mairon,” Melkor said gently, stepping in front of him. “I know not what you are talking about.”

An air of confusion and misunderstanding lingering about them Melkor could only watch as Mairon slowly seemed to regain his memories, passing through a fury of emotion.

In particular his focus seemed to rest upon the mountain, or rather something within. A ring had he said? What ring was so dear to the maia that it would be his first thought upon awakening from what had clearly been a shattered existence?

“I see,” he said at last, turning his attention back to Melkor. “I failed.”

“Failed?”

“The ring was destroyed and my soul ripped in two.”

Mairon turned his attention again, this time toward the line of far city.

“How much time has passed?”

The tension of the moment passing Melkor laughed, his first since his own awakening.

“It was to you I came seeking that knowledge.”

“Over six thousand years have passed,” Mairon replied. “since you were cast through the door. How much time it has been since I walked as anything more than as you found me, I do not know.”

Six thousand years.

And more since.

Mairon’s attention suddenly turned back to his new body and Melkor watched as the maia mirrored his own earlier actions upon awakening. Turning his hair from gold to red, to fiery curls, to gold again. Clothing himself in makeshift visions of crimson and orange and black. Seeming to delight in his hands most of all, in the feeling of having been made whole.

“Much has happened,” he said at last, finally seeming satisfied in his appearance. “Much that I would tell you Melkor though -”

He broke off, his keen eyes searching.

“How?”

“I do not know.”

They stood motionless for a moment, silent, each full of his own questions.

“I am sure it was not They,” Melkor said at last with a humorless laugh. “It was their final joy to strip me from their beloved land and toss me away. And now that they have freed Arda from my grip, it would seem they have departed.”

“Yes,” Mairon answered with a nod. “They have abandoned these lands. Withdraw themselves from the very veil of the world.” A smile passed. “I had say in that.”

Melkor doubted it little.

“What have you been up to since I left you?”

“Much, more and better than you.”

Another laugh erupted from Melkor then and Mairon’s own escaped him. For a moment they simply stood there, glad for each others company and the freedom after so many years of betrayal and their own chains.

As the laughter died Mairon shook his head, nodding towards the mountain.

“There is much to tell Melkor, much that has happened.”

“I would know it all.”

-

How long it took the tell the tale in full, Melkor did not know.

Days, week perhaps. Little that he cared as he listened to Mairon’s every word of the account of years.

Of the aftermath of the war and the fate of the cursed jewels. The years spent in hiding and confusion after the refusal of the summon back to Valinor. The rise of the elves and how he had been among then, teaching and mastering and working his own plans of dominance. The building of his own land, his own fortress, how own armies.

The men who had been rewarded and grown in pride and their own biter corruption. The temple that had been raised and the rituals that had take place. The desperation as Mairon had called his name and the fury of the waves that had been another breaking point in his soul.

The conquest of the land and the dominion of the people the Valar had forgotten. The reckless ambition as he had came forth ring in hand and laid waste to their armies and kings. The sudden strike of a broken sword and the anger in his own failure.

The years spent growing again, the desperation to which he had clung to himself and in the search to find that most precious and valued. The wild hordes of orcs and the men who had worshiped him and served him and became as ghosts, only reflections of what their master himself was becoming.

Of the final stroke. The moment of fear as the thief had claimed it as his own and the confusion of the armies at his door and the real danger within. The reach for the ring in the last second and then fear and the pain of burning and being lost.

The years without thought and memory, a wind upon the land full of hate and resentment.

The tale finished, Mairon grew quiet and Melkor realized he was waiting for his master’s comment.

In all the deeds of Melkor, Mairon had a part.

The good and the bad.

In his final years he had spread himself too thin; given his power to Arda and to those about him. Allowed his treasure too much hold, given it too much of his own soul and wasted away under its corrupting touch. He had been driven into madness, paranoia.

And it would appear that the same fate had befallen Mairon.

A ring into which he had poured his very essence. Stolen and lost and hidden and shattered. And not only the ring, his own banishment had shaken Mairon in ways Melkor had not quite imagined. How had he felt? One dear friend driven insane and locked away and the comfort of the other had been the promise of a swift judgment and years of bitter toil.

“What next?”

Mairon leaned back against the wall, one eyebrow raised as he waited for Melkor’s command.

“My strength is weakened, Mairon. If you expect swift revenge upon those -”

“Hobbits.”

“You will be in wait.”

Mairon rolled his eyes.

“I would be happy to never see one again. To never hear anyone speak of a Shire and Baggins and that horrible, little … whatever it was.”

Melkor laughed.

“Much has changed.”

“More than you know.”

What would be his next step? Melkor wondered suddenly. Revenge? Oh the thought did burn hot. Let them anguish in the endless blackness for an age. The Valar, the elves, the men. Hear the snarls and the screams and feel the bite of unseen teeth.

Let Arda thrive under his care. Set him be High King, his rightful title, and see if he abandoned his most beloved land for halls of soft pillows and the praise of elves.

But …

“I heard the call of the others,” he told Mairon. “Thuringwethil, Gothmog, and the rest. Perhaps they can be pieced together as you have been. What remains of the rest of my servants?”

“Slain,” Mairon sighed. “The orcs may at this point be extinct. The others -”  
He trailed off, waving his hand slightly.

Melkor’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“The dragons?”

Mairon’s eyes grew soft.

“Smaug is dead.”

With a groan Melkor let his head fall back, a sharp pain of anguish shooting through his chest.

“We can rebuild,” Mairon said, grabbing his wrist. “Melkor, you have a second chance. They yet remain as shadows but with time they could be great. I can restore my wolves. Your maiar can be reclaimed from the four wind and Melkor?”

A smirk appeared upon Mairon’s face, a flash of the old in a time when their innovation had been great and Mairon the brightest of flames.

“You have me.”

“I do.”

Mairon nodded and Melkor could see the fire in his eyes.

“The Valar, they do not know you are free?”

He understood what Mairon meant. A chance, an opportunity.

They were alone.

Had this not been his heart’s desire and content? To govern Arda and delight in her growth? To create and build and …

“I must rest,” Melkor said. “I must regain my power.”

“We can go north, to the ice.”

Melkor laughed.

“You will freeze.”

“An island then. A volcano.”

“I had not thought you would be so eager to return given your last experience?”

A light punch and a lick of fire upon his arm came in response to the jest but the smile upon Mairon’s face betrayed any act of true anger.

Yes.

They would rebuild. They would recover.

He would rule and tend and create and marvel and Arda would thrive beneath his rule for as long as it lasted. Let Mairon restore his halls and forge and plain and thrive.

Let the Valar remain hidden away.

Let them come even. Let them try to tear him down again.

Let him rise up once more.

The Void had been their last resort and he had been given freedom from even that. The Mighty Arising, back within the land he so held dear.

The chain is shattered.

And he is free.


End file.
